


No sense or gain

by panamdea



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: X-Wing Series - Aaron Allston & Michael Stackpole
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Loss, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 20:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19483339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panamdea/pseuds/panamdea
Summary: His world has shattered, fractured around an impossible, Wes-shaped gap and nothing makes any sense.Blank numbness carries Hobbie through the first jump away from Distna, shock preventing him really registering the appalling truth of what has happened. Reality starts to catch up with him somewhere in the second.Set duringIsard’s Revenge, immediately after the end of chapter 21 and overlapping the start of chapters 23 and 24.





	No sense or gain

**Author's Note:**

> Potential trigger warning: There's a grief and shock induced panic attack in this piece. It's not super vivid but it's described from Hobbie's internal point of view.
> 
> Unbetaed or anything by anyone. Point out my errors! Feedback very much appreciated. You know when you can't tell if you've done what you were aiming for because you've been staring at it too long? That.
> 
> ~~~
> 
> There won’t be time for all of us,  
> I know there won’t be time for all of us.  
> ...  
> ‘Cause I saw two fall before they were ready to,  
> And I found no sense or gain to bear the cost.  
> \- _Memories and Dust_ , Josh Pyke
> 
> ~~~

It has been ninety minutes since Wes died. 

No. 

It has been ninety minutes since Wes went EV. It isn't necessarily the same thing.

But Hobbie sees again the concussion missile hitting Wes' X-wing, sees it transform instantaneously from sleek fighter to wreckage, and knows that it must be. And if by some miracle Wes wasn’t killed outright by the impact and explosion, cold and anoxia would have killed him by now. Ninety minutes. The very outside edge of the possible survival window. 

Wes is dead. 

Except he can't be. Wes is a constant. He can’t be gone, it isn't possible. There can’t be a reality where Hobbie lives and Wes dies. Wes is a survivor, always has been. That can't change now. It can't.

But it has. Wes is dead.

All the horror that training and instinct shut down during the battle erupts in Hobbie’s chest. He struggles against the flood of emotion, trying to squash it all down, to keep calm, not give way to the gaping chasm in his chest, because he has to stay focused, stay alive, the surviving Rogues aren’t out of the woods yet, anything could happen and he has to be prepared and-

But he can’t quite catch his breath, has to fight hard to swallow the wail that wants to tear its way out of him and his cheeks are wet with tears he doesn't remember. Downer hoots a concerned query as his heart-rate spikes an alarm on the monitor but he doesn’t have any energy spare to reassure the droid. 

A different alarm gives him a scant few seconds to gather himself for the reversion to realspace. As the X-wing shudders inelegantly out of hyperspace, his hands too shaky on the stick for a clean exit, instinct kicks in again. He checks automatically on his wingman’s relative position and- 

Gone. 

Rogue Three is dead too. He’s failed Lyyr twice over; failed to get her through the battle and has hardly even thought of her since. But the guilt and sorrow he knows he should feel are muffled by the black pit in his chest. They seem such minor things next to Wes’ death. 

Deliberately, he pushes all of it down. Burying the sick hooks of grief and despair under a veneer of detachment he turns his attention to the two squadrons flanking them and the planetary system they have arrived in. He can’t afford to be distracted. Neither Wes nor Lyrr will thank him for getting himself killed through lack of attention now. 

“Rogue Squadron, power down weapon systems. Confirm by the numbers.” Wedge sounds calm over the comm, as though nothing out of the ordinary is happening. As though this unknown military force wasn’t forcing them to cooperate and who knew what awaited them on planet. As though they hadn’t just lost a third of the squadron. 

As though they hadn’t just lost Wes. 

Following Wedge’s order automatically Hobbie flicks the switches that shut down his fighter’s laser cannons and disable the proton torpedo launching systems. He knows it is a formality, a show of good faith for whoever these people are. Worn out and stunned by the battle they have just come from, outnumbered again under the other squadrons’ guns there is little the Rogues can do right now other than cooperate. 

And these people did save them, that must count for something in their favour. Though what, balanced against their refusal to search for survivors, Hobbie isn't sure. 

“Two confirms, weapon systems powered down,” Tycho says, and Hobbie finds he has somehow retained enough composure to report next, skipping over the gap that Lyyr’s death has created. There is an awkward pause before Gavin, slowed down by his own grief over Asyr and forgetting his flight leader is gone too, reports in. One by one the remnants of the squadron check in around the holes left by their losses.

“Rogue Squadron confirms all weapons are powered down.” Wedge’s voice is still even as he relays the information to the commander of the escorting squadrons. Hobbie’s stomach churns with sudden, sick fury, how can Wedge sound this neutral? But he knows that if he can manage to sound steady then Wedge certainly can. He has always been the most brutally composed of them all. Space lubricants for blood the rumour mill says, but Hobbie knows better so he carefully pushes the anger down with the pain and ignores it as best he can. 

Passing through the atmosphere without incident, they approach an Imperial base. Hobbie saw enough before he defected that even without the clues provided by the squadrons of TIE-based fighters its intrinsic Imperialness is obvious. He acknowledges the ground crew's signals without consciously realising they are the signals he’d learnt as a cadet, settles his X-wing and begins his post-landing check and shutdown. 

There is a rhythm to this that is familiar, soothing; the flick, flick, flick as he works through switches that still the engines, powers down life support. Too soon he reaches the end of the shutdown sequence and stares blankly at the now dark control panel. He wishes he could start over, take more time, hide in his cockpit a little longer before he has to face the rest of the squadron and what they've lost. 

Wes is dead. 

Downer screams a sudden note of alarm behind him as a ladder thumps against the side of his fighter. Startled, Hobbie pushes the canopy open, looking round wildly and swings out of the cockpit, ignoring the ladder to slide awkwardly to the ground. 

“Get away from my ship.” He snarls at the technician who has manoeuvred the ladder into place. The man freezes, eyes wide in surprise at this unexpected attack. 

"Stand down, Hobbie. It's okay." Wedge's voice behind him is quiet. 

Hobbie swings round, startled and furious. "It's not okay." He replies through gritted teeth. He doesn’t know if he means being on an Imperial base, his fighter being touched by this Imperial or just everything that has happened today, because Wes is dead and nothing is ever going to be okay again. Wes is dead and instead of dealing with the rest of the squadron Wedge is here checking on him and Hobbie loves him for it and hates him a little for knowing he needed to. Hates himself more for needing to be checked on, he should be- he should be- what? Wes is dead and he doesn't have any idea what he is without Wes anymore. Who he is without Wes. 

"I know. But we don't have a choice. Let the crew do their jobs." Wedge’s voice remains so even it takes Hobbie a moment to process the order through his confusion of fury and grief. He turns and takes an angry step away before stopping, shoulders slumping as he realises that dramatic gestures in enemy territory don’t work, that he has nowhere to go. He turns back to Wedge, feeling desperate and stupid and sees the devastation burning in his friend’s eyes.

“Wes-” Hobbie starts, but he can’t form a sentence that makes any sense.

Wedge’s expression is suddenly pinched. “I'm so sorry.” There is a harsh burr of grief under the words that horrifies Hobbie more than Wedge’s earlier calm. Wedge reaches out a hand and Hobbie steps back, desperate to avoid sympathy because sympathy is acknowledgement. Is reality. 

“Hobbie are you-” But to Hobbie’s relief, whatever Wedge is about to ask is interrupted by the arrival of a man in an Imperial flight suit, a colonel’s rank bars on his chest, a slight frown on his face.

“Is there a problem, General?” The colonel’s voice is familiar from the comm, cool and cultured, a match for his sharp features. Hobbie hates him immediately. The man is everything he turned his back on when he defected to the Alliance. He rescued the Rogues but abandoned their missing. He is alive when Wes is dead.

“No,” Wedge answers shortly, his expression neutral again, “there’s no problem.” It is so obviously not true but what is the alternative? The Imperial doesn’t need to throw his weight around here and cooperation, regardless of loss, is necessary. 

“Good. General, my superiors wish to speak with you.” The Colonel gestures towards a corner of the hangar. “Your people can wait here until you return.” It is not a suggestion or a courtesy. The guards are subtly placed to be obvious but not intimidating; it is very clear that the squadron’s survivors are not at liberty but are not yet considered a direct threat. And while these people seem to want the remaining Rogues alive, it is also obvious that they can be used as surety for Wedge’s good behaviour if necessary. 

Wedge nods and looks at Hobbie, a tacit request for cooperation that makes him briefly ashamed of his outburst at the tech. He nods in return. 

“I’ll...” He waves his hand vaguely in the same general direction the Colonel had and Wedge nods again before turning away to follow the other man. Downer rolls up beside him, tootling a low inquiry, and Hobbie realises the tech he had yelled at has taken advantage of his distraction to extract the astromech from his X-wing. He scowls, refusing to feel gratitude because it’s just a standard security procedure, not a kindness. 

Half way across the hangar filled with men in grey and black a new wave of dizzying wrongness hits him. He hasn’t worn an Imperial uniform for a decade but here and now on the deck of a hangar that he hates feels as familiar as it does, he has to reassure himself that he is still wearing bright, New Republic orange. On top of his already shaken sense of reality the discordance of it all makes him light-headed and he stumbles, glad now for Downer beside him, an anchor to some vague sense of normality. 

This is all wrong, he doesn’t belong here, he left all this, he shouldn’t be here, Wes is dead, _everything_ is _wrong_.

Corralled into the corner of the hangar, the rest of the squadron looks almost as dazed as Hobbie feels. Gavin sits heavily on a crate as though the effort of standing with the weight of his loss is too much. He looks so young, kriff he _is_ so young, younger even than Hobbie had been when Biggs died and even though Hobbie couldn’t accept whatever support Wedge had been trying to give he thinks he should go to Gavin and offer… something. Because he’s wondered sometimes, if things had been different, if Biggs had lived even a little longer, would he have been Gavin’s Uncle Hobbie now rather than a squadmate? But Gavin knows nothing of that and Hobbie has no comfort to offer anyway, just the sour truth that everyone you let yourself care about dies. Biggs died and now Wes is dead and-

For a wild moment he wants to yell at Gavin instead, tell him to pull himself together, that he’s not the only one who’s lost someone today, that he’s not special. But he knows he is being ridiculous, unkind, because Gavin and Asyr had been in love, planning to marry, and Wes was just his friend.

 _Just_. Nothing _just_ about it. Wes was his best friend longer than they'd knew each other and- 

Was.

Kriff no, it is too soon for past tense. He can’t think of Wes in the past tense. Wes can’t _be_ past tense-

Wes is really dead.

The realisation hits him fully, splintering his careful denial and taking his breath away.

Wes is _gone_. 

Wes is gone and he's never going to see him or speak to him again. Never going to laugh with him again. Do anything with him again. There are no more agains. And with those agains have gone all the possible firsts that might have been if-

Abruptly, the hangar is too loud, too full, too close, too-

Overwhelmed by everything, Hobbie stumbles to the wall on shaking legs, leans against it and forces himself to breathe. His heart is racing too fast and despite the sudden ringing in his ears he can hear his breath rasping too rapid, too shallow. The world tunnels around him and he sits, hitting the floor hard, ducking his head to his knees, jarringly afraid he will pass out. 

"Hey," Tycho's voice above him, sounding distant despite his proximity, then a brush of air as he crouches and a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"

Hobbie swallows back the howl that tries to claw its way out of his chest instead of an answer and shakes his head against his knees, because no. Not okay. Not with this. Not with losing Wes. How can that be okay? How can it possibly be _real_? It isn’t, it can’t be real, please, it can't be. None of this can be real.

 _Please_.

His breathing spasms painfully in uncontrollable hitches, his whole body shaking as stifling pain grips his pounding heart. Tycho drops to the floor beside him and rests a hand on his back. He says nothing, just sits, his presence the only comfort he can offer, and it is not his fault that it only highlights Wes’ absence. 

For an agonising age Hobbie fights against his own body until finally his heart rate slows, his breathing evens out and he is left with only a hollow, aching confusion. His world has shattered, fractured around an impossible, Wes-shaped gap and nothing makes sense. 

It takes another while until he trusts his voice again but eventually he manages, "I'm okay.”

"You sure?" Tycho’s voice, rough with his own pain, is filled with understanding as he calls Hobbie’s words out as the obvious lie they are. 

"No." Hobbie turns his head against his knees, the fabric of his flight suit -- orange, not black, that is still real at least but then so is Wes’ death -- rough against his cheek, and looks at his friend. "You?"

A muscle jumps in Tycho's cheek and his rapid glance away betrays his own need for reassurances that Hobbie can’t give him. "Same."

And perhaps it should be the same, but it isn’t, Hobbie thinks. Not really. But his own grief is too sharp and tangled with barely understood regrets to put words around yet, even for Tycho, his oldest friend who is hurting too. Not knowing what else to do he reaches for Tycho’s hand where it rests on his shoulder and laces their fingers together. It isn't much comfort to offer, but Wes is dead and he has nothing else to give.


End file.
